All the people who work at the bar seem to have part of their brains missing. They’re confused about what’s on tap and always have to check with someone else; I wonder if they’re hungover or just stupid. And that’s how I can relate to them and feel at home here, at the bar.
I hunker down and look at the list and wait for them to come back. You have to be ready right away on the off-chance you get good service, otherwise it could take forever.
I look out at the sky, at the gray and the trees: and all the Pacific Northwest pallors of slack-eyed guys with bad posture, hanging over their drinks, cradling them, checking their devices. I look at them and look at me and realize I fit right in here, and wonder about that.
The bathroom is always stark but that’s okay, because I have low expectations; I get in and out. They have black and white photos of Northwest scenes framed cock-eyed, all the anonymous American Indians staring back. They were right about losing their souls.
Charlotte likes coming here because of the Lego set and we can watch her talk to herself from the other side of the bar, in the corner.
I work to empty my mind out on the recliner, pretending I’m dead: that’s why they call it corpse pose in Yoga, which sounds macabre but doesn’t need to be.
I celebrate my birthday and my 400th post today, trying to let go of distractions, committing myself to nothing or no one, as my only commitment. But of course, I can’t. And that’s alright.